Dos Equis (4 page)

I maneuvered myself in order to get a better look. There certainly was room enough in the sofa’s body to conceal something,

like a small box or a file of papers. I studied the wood frame from which the lining had been pulled. In the corner from which the fabric had let go, there were tacks. The rest of the lining was held in place with industrial-size staples. Someone had either tried for a home repair, or had purposely created a hiding spot for…something.

Hearing the telltale wail of approaching sirens, I hopped up. I returned the case file to its original location, and stuffed the copies into my waistband. Thank goodness the weather necessitated a bulky sweater under which the sheaf of papers would not

readily be visible. When the cops came crashing in, I was crouching near Jane Cross’s body, saying my last goodbyes to a real pip.

The next hours were gruelling. Given the disarray of the place, the fact that I was covered in bloody scratches, thanks to the damn cat, and contusions, thanks to the damn killer-who-got-away, and that I was found standing over the body, I was not

surprised to be suspect numero uno. It wasn’t until the coroner inspected Jane’s body and determined she’d been dead for at

least twenty-four hours that I was cleared. Fortunately I still had a copy of my boarding pass proving that when the murder was committed, I was still living
la vida loca
in Zihuatanejo. My, how a few hours change everything. Even so, none of this kept the constables from questioning me endlessly. They asked me the same questions, over and over again, only in slightly different

formats. They were hoping for a slip up or discrepancy they could exploit. Luckily, I used to be one of them. I know all the tricks.

Of course, the best defence against getting caught up in the spider’s web of police questioning, is to tell the complete truth.

Which I did. To a point. I didn’t lie…exactly. I simply withheld the bit of information about why I was in Jane’s office in the first place. I didn’t tell them about the phone message from Jane saying she needed my help. I simply said I was a friend who decided to stop in for a visit on my way home from holiday in Mexico. Once I was ruled out as a suspect, they were too

focussed on detecting the identity of my attacker and likely killer, to go into it any further.

Figuring out the identity of the man I’d caught red-handed in Jane’s office was not going to be an easy task. I’d asked myself all the same questions the cops did. What did I know about this guy that could help identify him? Sadly, it was bloody little. It had been dark. I’d been consumed more with saving my own life than studying facial features. As night smudged away into the

early hours of a new day, the only thing I could come up with was his smell. The guy wore nice cologne. I thought it might be Tom Ford. The cop questioning me at the time quite obviously had no idea who or what Tom Ford was. I elaborated. He rolled

his eyes and walked away. Soon after, I was allowed to go back to my hotel.

I was beyond exhausted by the time I locked the door of my hotel room. But I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink without taking at

least a cursory glance at the papers that had been adding an extra inch to my waist size for the past several hours. I ordered a stiff drink from room service, stripped down, took a quick hot shower, donned the hotel’s cozy white bathrobe, and, with feet up on the bed, dove in.

Although Jane was up to date in her notes, she was not what I would consider overly verbose in her written reports. I guess

she just assumed most of it would be safer stored in her noggin. She was wrong about that. But there was enough in the papers to get a sense of what she’d been up to.

Jane had been hired by Millie Zacharias. Millie asked Jane to look into the death of her neighbour, a woman named Hilda

Kraus. According to police and hospital reports, Hilda had died, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, from botulism. I was

surprised to see the cause of death. I’d have to do some research on it, but I was quite certain death from botulism was

virtually wiped out years ago. Not only was inadvertent creation of the poison easily preventable, but also treatment was

foolproof…assuming the victim received help in time. Obviously that had not been the case with poor Mrs. Kraus. Apparently

there was something about the passing that did not seem quite right to Mrs. Zacharias.

A knock at the door told me my Manhattan had arrived. I retrieved it and had taken a deep swallow before I was back on the

bed. It was strong and sweet and cold going in but hot going down. Perfect. I yawned and placed the drink on a bedside table. I needed sleep. But I needed information more. I continued to scan the remaining pages I’d…appropriated…from Jane’s office.

From her notes, it looked as if she’d begun by doing a background check on Hilda Kraus. She made the typical inquiries and

computer checks and intended to talk to friends and family. But either she hadn’t gotten to it yet, or she simply hadn’t had the time to record the results of her work. I was confident she must have found something out. Something important. Or else she

wouldn’t have deigned to call and ask for my help. And, she probably wouldn’t be lying in a Regina morgue. There wasn’t a

lot to go on in the files. But there was enough. Enough to get me started. I knew the police would do a good job investigating Jane’s death. But I couldn’t leave it at that. Jane Cross, in one of the last acts of her too short life, had reached out and asked for my help. I had no intention of denying her request.

The next thing I knew, the rude buzzing of an alarm clock was burrowing into my brain like some kind of crazed drill. I slapped at the unfamiliar bedside device several times in an effort to locate the shut-the-hell-up button. Opening one eye to the new day, I reached for the watered down remains of my Manhattan and downed it. Not so bad really.

Abruptly, like a jack-in-the-box, I bolted up and out of bed.

Something was very wrong.

I darted to the windows and yanked open the blackout curtains to throw some light on the situation. Remembering that I was

naked and that my room faced an office tower, I quickly pulled back the filmy drapes to obscure and discourage any early

morning would-be peeping Toms.

Scanning the room, I tried to focus my brain on revealing why I was so sure something wasn’t right. Everything looked to be

just where I left it. Tired set of luggage full of shoes and laundry. My favourite airplane slip-ons on the floor. Watch, cellphone, and laptop on the bureau. Toiletries—the only thing I’d bothered to unpack—set out in the bathroom.

My eyes widened as an unwelcome thought hit me.

I’d had the good sense, as I grew more and more tired the previous night, to stuff Jane’s papers between the mattress and box spring of the bed. I almost tripped over myself in a rush to check if they were still there.

They were.

So what was it? What were my senses warning me of?

And then I had it.

The air.

It smelled of Tom Ford cologne.

Chapter 3

Never one to shy away from bloody inconvenience in the quest for good looks, I’d once again purchased a car that was wholly

unsuitable for my daily needs. Annabelle is a British racing green Solstice convertible, with imperceptible trunk space and

nonexistent back seats. This makes it almost impossible to buy more than a sack or two of groceries, haul any piece of luggage larger than a knapsack, or ferry about my two Schnauzers, Barbra and Brutus, without discomfort. But my god, it is a sexy

looking automobile.

And so, it was up to my mother to pick me up at the airport with her circus-sized van. It all worked out fine anyway, as Mom had been looking after my house and dogs while I was away. Generally, I am not a fan of being met at the airport, especially if it’s been a long day of flying. I’m usually bagged, and not up to sparkling conversation, and would rather just get in and out of the airport without much fanfare. This, however, is not my mother’s style.

“Oh
sonsyou
!” she wailed before I’d even completely crossed the threshold into the arrivals area. “Vhere haf you been all dis time! You must be so hungry,
tahk
? Come, I take you home for some goot food. I brought sandweech for now.”

I accepted the salami, red onion, and Velveeta on homemade white bread thrust into my hands. “Mom, we have to wait for

my luggage.”

Mom wasn’t used to the idea of air travel, or really any sort of travel at all. She’d never been out of the province of

Saskatchewan, never mind on a plane. God help the first stewardess who tried to pass off airplane food as a proper meal.

“Vhere haf you been?” she asked again as she followed me toward the luggage carousel.

“Mom, I was in Zihuatanejo. With Errall. I told you that when I talked to you on the phone last week.”

“I don’t know about such place. Mebbe I didn’t hear so goot. Vhere is Carol, den?” Mom either couldn’t say, or didn’t

approve of, the name Errall. Who ever heard of such a name? So, in such cases, she came up with another name that suited her better. Thus, Errall became Carol. “I haf extra sandweech in da car for her den.”

“Errall’s still in Mexico. She has a few more days of holiday left.”

“Okay, den. But you stay here,
tahk
? You come home for goot now, uh huh?”

“Yes. I’m back now, Mom. I bet you’ll be happy to get back to the farm. I really am sorry I was away for so long.” We’d

covered all this before, but it never hurt to repeat apologies.

“Yah, vell, eets cold now. Not so much to do on da farm. But still, it vill be goot to be back home again.”

Mom still lived on the family farm where I grew up, about forty minutes north of the city. At one point, after Dad passed

away, I—no doubt suffering some kind of hallucinatory haze— invited Mom to come live with me permanently.

But, at the spry age of seventy, she still preferred her independence and the peacefulness of the farm, compared to the “vild, crazy vays” of the big city. Mom had given up a lot to look after my home and dogs. During the summer months, she’d simply

closed up my house and took the dogs with her to live on the farm. In the winter, they’d stayed in Saskatoon. I was exceedingly grateful. But she seemed to take it all in stride. A mother’s job is never done.

“I go home tomorrow, den,” she told me. “Tonight I feex you goot meal.”

I smiled and hugged her. “I can’t think of a better welcome home.”

Stepping up to my front door, bags and mother in tow, I was surprised at how nervous I was. Everything looked and smelled

and felt wondrously familiar. Nothing had changed. Except me. Was I a stranger in my own world? I was excited to see

my Barbra and Brutus again. We were a tight trio. It had been difficult to be away from them for so long. I missed their

smell, their quirky ways, their undying, unqualified love.

Taking the key from my mother, I unlocked the front door. Before it was fully open, I could hear the clomping of multiple feet rushing toward me. I dropped to my knees just in time to get an armful of Brutus. Normally my dogs are graciously restrained, keeping excessive shows of affection for our private moments. But not now. Brutus was all over me, like skin on bones . As he covered me with kisses, he whimpered with nearly uncontainable joy. If only he could talk, I knew he’d be saying something

like: “I love you I love you I love you did you bring me treats?”

Momentarily sated, Brutus went to see if perhaps Mom had been smart enough to bring him something tasty. I glanced around

expectantly, awaiting the next furry onslaught by Brutus’s sister. Instead, Barbra was sitting on her haunches, in the distant entranceway to the kitchen. She was watching my welcome home with a calm, detached gaze.

I felt a sudden sharp stab of pain in my heart.

For a time, long before Brutus came to live with us, it had just been Barbra and me. We had a special bond. A bond which, I

suddenly realized, I’d damaged by being away for too long. A bond which would not immediately be repaired, just because

I’d decided to suddenly reappear.

Barbra’s eyes narrowed as they moved to regard her exuberant, love-starved sibling. If I were to guess what she would say,

it would go something like: “What a slut.” She slowly rose and, leaving me with one last withering look, slunk away.

Promising to be home no later than seven for my welcome home supper, I found Annabelle in the garage and dusted her off.

After warming her up for about five minutes, I was off. I hadn’t seen Anthony and Jared since spending several weeks with

them at their rented place on the Amalfi coast in early fall. So when I called to say hello and tell them I was back in town, they insisted I drop by for a bite of lunch at their downtown penthouse, atop the Radisson building.

Anthony and Jared, although already having been together for several years, were legally married in the middle of a prairie

plough wind a couple of years ago. That the ceremony barely skipped a beat is testimony to a relationship that has heartily

withstood the test of time, trials and tribulations. Anthony Gatt is the owner of a string of high end menswear shops nattily called gatt. Once upon a time, Jared Lowe was the male equivalent of Gisele Bündchen. At sixty, Anthony continues to be a

successful entrepreneur. At twenty years younger, Jared’s modelling career is long over. Now he runs Ash House, a care home

for the swinging senior set, along with my ex, Ethan Ash. Anthony speaks with an English accent; Jared speaks the low, throaty language of sexiness. Anthony is Robert Redford. Jared is a copper-headed, olive-skinned, sweet-natured, man-boy wonder.

Anthony was my mentor when I was coming out, and the man whose opinion I probably most respect. Jared was the object of

my unrequited man-crush for a number of years. Given our history, they were the perfect sounding boards to help me figure out if I was doing the right thing in pursuing Jane’s final case.